Just a Spark
by Squirrelznflight
Summary: Three years after the Transformers awaken on Earth, a young engineer builds a suit that will allow her to masquerade as a Transformer. Involves a look at transhumanism and psychology, an actual plot, and a non-Sue OC. My first fic. Feedback appreciated.
1. Only Human

Update: Fixed some typos. Added chapter name.

Author's Note: _Hello, and thank you for reading this pointless text at the top. I am Squirrelznflight, a fan of many things who one days hopes to become a writer. I hope you enjoy the story to come, and I hope it brings back memories of yearning to fight alongside the Transformers despite the limitations of the human body… a constraint that we can overcome only by our greatest strength, the endless horizons of the mind._

Disclaimer: I do not own the Transformers… and yet here I am coming up with plot ideas and themes up the wazoo and staying up until midnight typing out a story from which I will never profit. Why? Because writing rocks. Thanks to the creators of the Transformers for making this possible.

::When a sentence is enclosed by two colons on each end, it's either a commlink message or a computerized alert.::

* * *

**Only Human**

**

* * *

**

The suit took three years to construct. It was all metal, wires, and a little bit of paint, designed to look like a black knight from the myths, and it stood almost as tall as the Autobots' leader, Optimus Prime. Heavy armor covered its entire boxy frame, especially around the chest, and under that were carefully designed mechanisms to keep the human within safe from impact as she managed the controls and the onboard computer. It had a feed which showed input from the optic sensors on the helm, and a vocalizer. Shoulder-mounted weapons with automatic targeting were the last addition, along with a solar-powered battery that, once fully charged, could keep it running for a month.

No, it was the transforming bit that was the problem. If it weren't for that, the suit would fool even a real Transformer. It still might. It would have to do.

The young engineer who built it climbed within the control center in her suit's chest, and metal plating closed behind her. She strapped herself in and grabbed hold of the controls, a helmet like the larger one of her suit on her head, displaying information and the feed from the suit's optic plates. Sensors caught her voice as she made her robot self walk forward and into the sun.

"I'm not weak," she said quietly, the vocalizer making her words come out deep and loud in a male mech's voice, her first words as a Transformer. She strode forward, the suit's metal footfalls pounding against the earth, and then began to run, faster than she ever could as a human, across the fields beyond her house. "Not weak," she yelled, a smile that no one could see spreading across her face. "Look!"

She took a flying leap then, just because she could, with her new power, and just kept running when she landed. It was incredible. It was exhilarating. It was absolutely heartbreaking, but she pushed that away.

_I can fool them into thinking I'm one of them_, she thought, _so why not fool myself while I'm at it?_

And then the power plant came into view.

* * *

It was amazing how the explosion from Wheeljack's lab coincided perfectly with the sounding of the alarm.

The lead Autobot engineer had been working on a device which would fire homing lasers ever since coming out of recharge early that morning. Perceptor thought it was a lost cause, but he was helping all the same, mostly just to see if his old friend could pull it off before Ratchet got wind and made him move on to something less volatile, preferably with a chance of explosion at less than eighty percent. Somehow, though, after running the statistics for this particular operation himself, Perceptor was starting to see where the chief medic was coming from, and said so.

"Nonsense!" Wheeljack told him distractedly, not even glancing up from his workbench. "Just think back to the artificially intelligent smoothie maker I built last Tuesday for Carly."

"You're right," conceded Perceptor. "At least that one had the decency to explode in Megatron's face after he stole it thinking it was actually of some use."

Wheeljack, unfortunately, missed the humor, and indeed the entire rebuttal, as he was no longer paying attention to anything but his work. However, he did choose that moment to start talking to himself again. "All right, now I just need to add this bit in and--"

"Wheeljack--"

"—screw a few bolts in here--"

"Wheeljack!"

"—and then take out the insulation on this end--"

"Take out the insulation?! Are you mad? That puts your chance of an explosion at--"

But the Autobots' favorite, most infamous inventor was not listening. "…then just got to heat this bit up so I can…"

Perceptor leapt behind the nearest stack of parts as an open torch sprouted from one of Wheeljack's fingers, getting there just before Wheeljack said, "Uh… oops."

BOOM! The room shook, and a brief wave of heat swept outwards from the workbench. A few pieces of shrapnel clattered across the floor.

Perceptor, still intact, got up to inspect the damage.

As explosions in Wheeljack's lab went, this one wasn't that bad. It had taken out everything right around the workbench, flung tools against the walls, toppled a few shelves, and blew off a plate of armor on Wheeljack's right hand. The inventor himself, knocked flat on his back, was trying to wipe soot from his optics with the one good hand.

"Here," said Perceptor, helping him up. "Let's find that piece of metal again and get you to Ratchet."

BEEEEEP… BEEEEEEP.... BEEEEEEEEP…

"Hey, are my ears ringing," asked Wheeljack, "or is that the alarm?"

* * *

"It sounds like the siren we installed for special alerts," said Perceptor as they sprinted for the command center.

"The one for direct attacks on the power plant, you mean," said Wheeljack. He was still clutching his damaged hand and leaving a hideous trail of splattered energon behind them in the corridor from the injury.

"That's right," Perceptor said as they turned another corner, almost skidding into the wall before righting himself. "Ratchet will be at the command center, too, so have him take care of that when we get there."

Wheeljack winced. "Right."

* * *

It was a standard Decepticon attack on the power plant. Megatron and his forces were leeching energy from it again and threatening the city in the process, so of course the Autobots showed up to stop them, led by Optimus Prime.

What made it a non-standard attack was the fact that the Decepticons were already fighting when the Autobots arrived. Optimus Prime screeched to a halt and transformed. He took in the scene of 'Cons ducking for cover, shooting at random and then looking to see if they'd hit anything, and generally being completely disorganized and in full panic mode and said, "Autobots, what is going on?!"

Starscream answered that question by stumbling out of the building and yelling, "Stop shooting, you fools! There's only one enemy!" The crowd stopped panicking long enough to listen, so he went on, "Yes, you heard me! You're all in a panic over ONE MECH! He lost me in the storage area, but we can still catch him… Follow me, Decepticons!" He turned and raced back in, followed with some hesitation by his comrades.

"Autobots, move in," said Optimus Prime. "We need to deal with the Decepticons and find out who was attacking them before we arrived."

"Maybe he's another Autobot," suggested Jazz.

"Or maybe he's an unstable renegade," snapped Ironhide, glaring.

"Regardless," said Prowl, "we're wasting time. Jazz, come on. You're with me."

Inside the plant, generators hummed with power. Partially filled energon cubes lay discarded on the floor, barely filled. Whatever happened must have cut the 'Cons off early in the operation. The room was bare of the enemy, so the team just moved past it to the storage facility just off the main plant. There, boxes were stacked to the ceiling, forming a kind of labyrinth, so the Autobots split up to search and set off running towards the nearest explosions and Decepticon shouts.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had of course paired up and were trying to zero in on Starscream's voice through the din. The idiot was yelling orders that obviously weren't being followed, but they did show his complete ignorance of the situation.

"What an idiot," Sideswipe commented as he leapt over a large, fallen box.

"What else is new?" snorted Sunstreaker. He made the mistake of squinting for effect and almost barreled into his twin, who had stopped. "Hey, watch it!"

"Hold on, I coulda sworn he was…" Sideswipe's voice trailed off. They were at an intersection, just far enough back to be unable to see anyone who might be lurking around the corner. He realized this just as a blue fist collided with his face. He flew backwards, knocking down Sunstreaker as well.

"Ha! Autobots!" snickered Starscream as he advanced.

Sunstreaker shook his brother and yelled for him to get up, but it was no good. The bot had been knocked into recharge, and he was pinning Sunstreaker down, and the other voices he heard were too far away to help. The warehouse must have been huge; he could barely hear Optimus yelling something heroic at Megatron, or Jazz making an ill-timed joke to Prowl. He might have heard Ironhide grumbling about something, but it was too faint.

Sunstreaker raised his blaster as Starscream charged his Nul-Ray, even though he knew it would probably misfire at this range. He was fully prepared to shoot—and so was Starscream—when something amazing happened. The wall of boxes next to Starscream came crashing down. The Seeker barely had time to glance up in shock at the avalanche before he was buried. Sunstreaker recorded the sight for future enjoyment.

Then Sideswipe stirred. "Uh…huh…?"

"Glad you're up, buddy," said Sunstreaker. "Now could you please get off of me?"

"Don't…don't mind if I do." Sideswipe stood up shakily, allowing Sunstreaker to rise as well. "What was that?"

"Gee, man, I think it was a fist."

"No, not that." Sideswipe pointed at the boxes. "THAT."

"Oh." Sunstreaker shrugged. "I dunno. It just…fell."

"Well, I'm glad to hear gravity saved our butts."

"Ha! Yeah." The yellow twin grinned. "Come on. We'd better move." The two set off down the aisle in search of more 'Cons.

Meanwhile, Wheeljack and Ratchet were charging down another corridor after finishing off Thundercracker. Wheeljack kept glancing at his right hand.

"I knew I shouldn't have let you come," growled Ratchet. "That hand feel all right?"

"Yeah, fine," answered Wheeljack. "It's just a little numb." He stopped. "Hey, Ratchet… wait a second. Are you getting a weird energy reading?"

Ratchet, stopped too, turned to look at him. "Yeah, now that you mention it," he answered, tiling his head to the side. "I just assumed it was the electrical equipment when we walked in, but…"

"No." Wheeljack concentrated. "It feels like something big and moving—because the reading grows and fades—that's cycling a whole lot of energy."

"You think it's a droid, like on Cybertron?"

"No… different. More primitive. Can you feel a Spark in its field?"

"Hold on." Ratchet focused on his specialized Medic-bot sensors. "No, I don't think so. I'd have to get close to be sure, though."

"You think Megatron could be staging this?"

"I think we'd better find Optimus." Ratchet heaved a sigh as they turned to keep moving through the maze of boxes. "I don't like this."

* * *

"Tell me, Megatron!" boomed Optimus. "Who, or what, attacked you?"

The Autobot leader had Megatron at gunpoint, trapped against a metal wall at the far end of the warehouse. The 'Con leader's Fusion Cannon had been damaged when Optimus got hold of it earlier in the fight, so there was no way he could fight back with any hope of success.

Megatron snarled and looked around for an escape route or a weapon. Finding none, he turned his eyes back to Optimus. "There was just one," he began slowly, his voice grating like it always did, like every word was forcibly dragged from his vocalizer. "Just one mech, about your size, Optimus, but black. He had quick-firing weapons on his shoulders that… seemed to hit us all at once. Only Starscream and I saw him before he disappeared and ran for the warehouse." Megatron coughed suddenly, and Optimus saw that there was a wound in his chest. It was narrow and clean as from a precision weapon.

"Had you seen him before, Megatron?"

"No."

"Why did he attack you, then?"

"What, isn't he one of your accursed Autobots?" Megatron jibed, then coughed again. He leaned back against the wall, clearly weakened.

"That's something I'd like to know myself," replied Optimus, to which Megatron replied with a slow shake of the head.

"You'd better hope so, Optimus. You'd better hope---" Megatron coughed. "…you'd better hope he's on your side." The villain laughed quietly as he slid down the wall to the floor and fell unconscious as another explosion rocked the building.

* * *

_Well, there it is—the first chapter. I don't know when my next update will be, but thank you for reading up to here. Stay creative everybody!_


	2. Night and Storm

Author's Note: _Hello, and welcome to Chapter 2! I was really amazed at people's responses to the first chapter (which has a name now!). My undying thanks are in order to everybody who read, favorite'd, and/or set an alert, and special thanks to the people who left reviews. _

_I'm new at this so I might not be very good at responding to reviews and stuff, but I promise I'll try. By the way, I can't answer questions about the story in here about what's coming because then I wouldn't be doing my job as a writer, but if something is unclear please do bring it to my attention so I can rectify it. _

_I really appreciate your taking the time to read. I hope you enjoy Chapter 2! _

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers.

::When a sentence is enclosed by two colons on each end, it's either a commlink message or a computerized alert.::

* * *

**Night and Storm**

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* * *

**

Optimus Prime lowered his blaster slowly when it became apparent that old Megatron was not just playing possum. He had a small wound below the Spark chamber, and with any luck he'd die of it, but Optimus had better things to do than stick around and watch. He turned around and reentered the maze, opening the group commlink as he did so to report what he had learned.

::Autobots:: said Prime, ::We are dealing with a large, black mech of unknown origin. He apparently ambushed the Decepticons with precision lasers and fled to this storage facility. Has anyone seen him?::

::_I_ haven't:: replied Hound, the team's most skilled tracker. ::But then again, I haven't been looking. I'm going after Soundwave now so his little pets can't surprise us.::

It was the answer Optimus had expected. After all, if something out of the ordinary had been spotted, the team would have informed him by then.

::Sideswipe and I haven't seen him:: put in Sunstreaker, ::but somebody knocked a wall of boxes on Starscream just before he fired on us. Think that could have been him helping us out?::

::Well, _somebody _had to cause it:: put in Sideswipe almost immediately.

::I still don't like it:: insisted Ironhide. ::Somethin' ain't right here.::

::And what do you suggest we do about it?:: asked Prowl icily. ::Focus on the task at hand. We can't afford to be distracted by something on the commlink when--::

A burst of blaster fire and static interrupted him, followed by a click of his commlink going off. Then there was more blaster fire, and then a short silence which Jazz broke.

::Seeker hit 'im while he was giving orders:: Jazz explained quickly. His tone was worried, but not panicked. ::I got 'im, but Prowl needs help. I'm sending our coordinates now.::

* * *

::On my way:: commed Ratchet, then glanced back at Wheeljack. "You'll have to take this on your own."

The two were running down the aisle at top speed, closing on the strange signal they'd been tracking on their radars. Ratchet was in the lead with Wheeljack following since the Medic's sensors for his immediate surroundings were stronger. This had already saved them from numerous ambushes and dead ends.

"All right, I got it," Wheeljack said as they parted at the next intersection. The Medic-Bot sped away in the opposite direction.

Wheeljack engaged his sensors fully. It took all his concentration to watch the radar and the maze's twists and turns. _These systems need upgrading,_ he thought as he tried to keep a lock on the pulsing energy he tracked. _There needs to be a better map feature, plus a way to keep all this electrical junk that's piled up from interfering, and then some kind of target-marking tool… _

In fact, so many thoughts were running through his central processor that he almost failed to notice when the signal fled outside the facility through one of the many exits… and then just stopped. Surprise jolted the engineer all the way back to reality, and caution made him slow as he came upon the opening to the outside world. He approached it from the side and peeked around the corner.

The mech looked like a giant shadow from behind, completely black against the outline of the lightning-streaked clouds but for the two white turrets on his shoulders. The storm must have blown in while they were inside the warehouse, gathering slowly until it roiled and roared like a beast. Raindrops were beginning to fall as the scenery grayed. At first they came like dewdrops on the black mech's armor, scattered gently, reminiscent of stars coming out one by one against the curtain of night. As the rain began to fall faster and faster, it collected to run in rivulets off the glinting dark metal, then in sheets, slipping off the surface on which it could find no purchase and pooling on the ground. As lightning flashed, the streaks and currents of the water streamed white, making crazy webbed designs on his armor plating, which Wheeljack now saw to be like a medieval knight's. A proud helmet even crowned his head, a tapering outline that gazed up into the sky as though drawn into the sight and mystified by nature. The knight held out one hand before him, rather hesitantly and sadly, so that rain pooled in his palm. There it overflowed and ran over. It splattered to the ground just like the rest.

Water had begun to run into the warehouse through the cavernous opening to the outside, and the wind had picked up to hurl it in. Wheeljack shifted his metal treads—the humans called them "feet"—slightly as he felt wetness creep around them. He hesitated to approach the unknown and probably dangerous mech without backup. The others were dealing with the Decepticons. He couldn't draw them away from the battle where they were needed. He was limited to observation.

Observation! That was it. Perceptor had stayed behind to monitor Teletraan-1. He could analyze the data from Wheeljack's sensors using the supercomputer. That might give them the edge in dealing with the black mech who stood outside.

* * *

She could feel the rain. All her suit's incoming sensory data flowed through the cable plugged into the linkup port installed in her chest, relaying it straight to her central nervous system. It wasn't particularly useful, but it was interesting, and it was good that her technology was working.

What wasn't so good was that great, gray storm clouds hid the sun. She had been counting on solar power to recharge her suit from combat, which had drained the battery lower than expected. Normally it could last a month without the need to refuel, but laser blasts took a lot of energy from her store. Since the sun was unavailable, she now relied upon the magnetized generator to charge her suit up. It would be several minutes before she had enough just energy stored up to start the long journey home.

There was nothing wrong with enjoying the weather while she waited. It was nice to feel the rain and hear its drumbeat while safe and warm in the cockpit. It was even more relaxing than lying in bed at night. The almost-silent engines made a hum completely inaudible outside the suit. Calm and thoughtful, she reached out one hand and turned the palm up, feeling water pool on the waterproof metal and then cascade down as she gazed at the clouds, wondering if it was night yet beyond the layer of clouds. She liked to think it was. She imagined the stars coming out in the sky she couldn't see as she looked up with a sight not quite her own, fed through by optic sensors beneath the suit's visor on its helmet.

_Stars and lights in the sky…_ She sighed. Could one of them be Cybertron? It was too far away, perhaps, but so long as she was imagining…

_It was a planet of cities that had grown together. Lights webbed across its surface, and the whole world of metal softly glowed. Innumerable robots moved along its highways. They looked small and numerous as ants from above, but closer in one could see their individual forms. They fascinated the eye, inspired the mind, made the beating heart race. Torn by war it though it was, it was still beautiful. The sight made one want to heal it. _

::System has reached recommended charge.::

She started at the status alert. She had almost fallen asleep. The chronometer indicated that ten minutes had passed. That waxed a painfully long time to remain idle. She shifted her suit's weight a bit, checking the balance. She pulled up the map. Her intentions to chart a course already had the computer working. She meant to avoid obstacles and go through the forest again, then the field. The trees were a pain, but it was better than a bridge where humans could see.

She took a step forward.

* * *

::Low on energy?:: asked Wheeljack. ::Are you sure?::

::I'm positive:: said Perceptor. ::Those readings indicate he wouldn't risk further confrontation. He isn't likely to fire on you at the moment. I can't find a match for his specifications, but--::

::But you're sure he won't attack?::

::It isn't likely:: he repeated. ::However--::

::That's all I need. Thanks, Perceptor.:: Wheeljack cut off the transmission before his friend could say anything more. The mech had finally decided to move. It was either act now or let him escape.

"Hey!" Wheeljack burst out from the warehouse and into the downpour.

The mech spun around at the shout to face Wheeljack. The turrets on his shoulders swiveled to catch the inventor in their crosshairs. The mech's helmet covered his face and head without even an opening for the optics. A narrow plate of black one-way glass ran across where those ought to be.

"Where do you think you're going?" asked Wheeljack. He raised his blaster. "You can go ahead and point those turrets somewhere else. I know you're low on energy."

The black mech hesitated, then retracted the turrets into little bulbs on his shoulders. "I am not a Decepticon," he said. The voice was deep, confident, and also strangely quiet, yet it cut through the noise of the storm.

"Then who are you? Why did you fire on Megatron?"

The mech ignored the question completely. Instead of answering, he tilted his head to one side, as though thinking or trying to get a better look at something. He asked, "Why is the seam closing up on your hand?"

Odd question. Wheeljack glanced at his hand that held the blaster—his right. It was the one he had injured earlier in the lab, the one that Ratchet had fixed up.

"It's in the final stage of auto-repair," answered Wheeljack. "It won't affect my aim."

"Auto-repair?" repeated the mech, like he'd never heard the term.

_Something isn't right here, _thought Wheeljack. He sent a quick comm to Perceptor saying so.

::I'll tell Ironhide you quoted him:: answered Perceptor dryly.

::No, really.:: Wheeljack eyed the strange mech, who looked back silently. ::He doesn't know what auto-repair is, Perc.::

::Then explain the process to him:: suggested the scientist. ::We might learn something from him in return. Try to relax and keep him talking. I'll contact Prime and give him your coordinates.::

::All right, here goes.::

Wheeljack lowered his blaster slowly, but he kept it out. The other mech shifted to a less battle-ready stance in return as thunder boomed again. It was good the two stood on cement, or mud would have squelched when he moved.

"Yeah, auto-repair," said Wheeljack. "You know… Exposed protoform material sends signals to the CPU, which routes energon through the embedded wires in the protoform itself to the site of the injury. The energon acts as fuel for the metal to regenerate. Once the protoform is regrown, it secretes energon to repair the Cybertronium plating around it in much the same way… but you know that, of course." He watched for a reaction.

The mech was silent.

_Primus, _thought Wheeljack. _He really didn't know. _What youngling didn't know how its own body worked?

"What do you remember about Cybertron?" he asked slowly.

No response.

"Who are you?"

The mech shook his head.

"Look," said Wheeljack, "it's either tell me now, or tell the Prime when he gets here."

"I'm sorry. I can't." He started backing up.

Wheeljack advanced, too, not letting him retreat. "What do you mean, you can't?"

"I can't tell you."

"What are you hiding?" Wheeljack demanded. He matched the stranger step for step down the road.

"Please, don't force my hand!"

The turrets on his shoulders extended again. They focused on Wheeljack, who raised his blaster in return. "What--"

ZZZT!

A blast of laser fire exploded from one of the turrets. It caught Wheeljack in the chest. He stumbled and fell, unable to stop his own motion, crashing down on the cement before he could even react. Dimly, he heard another crash, and he struggled to get his head up. Through fading optics he saw the other mech on the ground as well; that one shot had taken up all his energy. Somewhere behind him, towards the warehouse, voices were being raised, but he couldn't make out what they said. The pain was messing with his sensors too much for that.

It was with a sense of profound confusion that he drifted temporarily offline.

* * *

The controls weren't responding.

_The controls weren't responding. _

She had shot an Autobot, _and the controls weren't responding. _

It had gone from the best-case scenario to the worst. She had learned something about Cybertron, watched an Autobot explain it to her as he lowered his blaster. She had thought that maybe there was hope. She could go home, improve her suit, and come up with whole new theories based on the doors that one answer opened. She had gotten so caught up in the possibilities.

But then, of course, came the inevitable questions. She couldn't tell the truth, and she didn't want to lie (not that it would have worked if she had tried to). It wasn't that the Autobots would do anything to hurt her if they learned she was human. Oh no, quite the opposite. She would be greeted, introduced, accepted, welcomed. Patronized. Treated as nothing more than a flesh creature. She didn't want that. She wanted to be treated as an equal, for better or for worse, by the Cybertronians, as she learned about their world. After all, if all went well, if all that she wished for came true, it would be her world, too.

And so the pressure made her panic. It increased her heart rate. It sped her breath. It made her body think it was in danger. That panicked sense of mind flowed through the outgoing cable connecting her mind to the suit and caused it to fire on the source of the perceived danger, and now she was effectively and for all intents and purposes _dead _because she had shot and possibly killed an Autobot in front of his comrades as they burst into view and she fell over, too.

And the controls still weren't responding. She would go down with the ship, like it or not. Whatever they did to her suit wouldn't be pleasant for the squishy human inside, that was to be sure. She could already feel them moving the whole apparatus to the back of some kind of truck.

She couldn't tell the truth, and she couldn't lie. She couldn't escape. She couldn't even move. She was soon to be annihilated, and all her stupid fleshy body could think about was the last time it had eaten. She heaved a sigh and reached for the onboard snacks.

Down with the suit. Down with the ship.

* * *

_And that concludes Chapter 2, Night and Storm! I hope you're enjoying the story so far. I don't know how long Chapter 3 will take, but rest assured that I will be working on it. _

_P.S. Reviewers—Should I keep the Author's Notes in italics or switch to non-slanted, regular font status? Does it make you dizzy? Do you find yourself leaning to the right along with it? This matter is oddly troubling to me. (Laugh if you want.) Also, would adding spacing on the sides of the page make it easier to read? Please let me know what you think if you choose to review. Thanks! _

* * *


	3. Analysis

Author's Note: _It has been a long few months since I last updated, but here is Chapter Three at last. Thank you all very much for reading the previous chapters and for having enough patience to stick with me to this point. I will really try my best to get future updates out with less lag in between, but because my life is stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, I can't make any promises. Once again, thanks to those who read and reviewed or just read. I appreciate it very much, and I hope you enjoy Chapter Three: Analysis. _

Disclaimer: I do not own the Transformers.

**

* * *

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Analysis

* * *

The firm press of cushioned seat against her back, rear, and legs was the only thing she was firmly aware of. To a lesser degree she felt her feet touching the now-useless pedals, her arms against the cool metal of the rests, and the helmet she still wore that felt like just another part of her head. She didn't bother with taking it off, nor did she undo the restraints that kept her strapped in place. They, in a way somewhat like seatbelts, restricted only involuntary movement. Besides, they felt loose since she was lying on her back—or rather, the suit was. It had been laid on some kind of horizontal surface a few minutes ago, after someone unloaded her from the transport.

She couldn't tell what was happening outside. Her optic and auditory sensors had gone out with the power that fed them. Everything except the ventilation—which ran off a small, independent magnetized generator—was offline. Not a speck of light illuminated the cockpit. It was pitch-black and completely silent except for the slight rasp of her breath, and the cycling air that let her take those breaths and cooled her circuits.

_Her sensors. Her circuits. Her breath. _

She frowned in the darkness and automatically reached up to brush one of the ports on her chest. She was still connected to the suit.

The linkup port was one of the first things she figured out. It was a relatively simple design, utilizing the way nerves transmitted impulses in the body. Those messages were enough like electricity to be fed directly into a properly constructed port, which then transmitted them to other nerve-like fibers. The system also worked in reverse, translating electrical currents into nerve impulses. With the assistance of some sensory nodes beneath her skin here and there, the suit was like an extension of her own body.

So much work, so much time. So much to lose. She could not let it be destroyed.

* * *

In the medbay of the Ark, the black mech and Wheeljack were laid out on their own separate berths. Perceptor ran various scans on the stranger while Ratchet worked to repair Wheeljack, who had remarkably regained consciousness at some point during the procedure.

"It isn't as bad as it looks, Ratch'," insisted Wheeljack. "Really."

Ratchet muttered something under his breath. "Like the Pit it isn't," he snapped. "You went offline. That means severe internal damage, even if you can't see it through this mess of energon pooling up by your Spark chamber!" He kept mopping up the energon pooling around Wheeljack's fuel line with absorption crystals until he could clearly see the damage.

"Well, Ratch'?" asked Wheeljack.

"All right, it _isn't_ that bad," conceded Ratchet with a release of air as he bent to work. "There's some damage to one of the vessels feeding your Spark, but it isn't serious. Your systems overreacted because normally a hit here _would_ be life-threatening…" He frowned thoughtfully as he worked. The fuel line's wall was already repairing itself. Only the barest traces of energon were trickling out. The immense pooling he'd cleaned up must have been mostly from the initial impact.

"Why isn't it, then?"" asked Wheeljack.

"It seems the blast was extraordinarily weak. Enough to break through your armor, maybe, but not to cause serious damage to what's beneath."

"He was low on energy. Could that have—"

"No," interrupted Perceptor. "Lasers are very precise weapons, both in terms of firing and the calculations involved."

Wheeljack nodded in agreement, remembering his earlier accident with homing lasers. "Either they work, or they don't," he said, then added, "Or they backfire."

"Precisely."

Ratchet, fortunately, missed that reference, and therefore did not deliver another stinging lecture on proper safety in the lab as though such a thing had any hope of existing in Wheeljack's presence. He made one final adjustment and closed the inventor's chest plates, then began work on his armor.

A short while later, the scanner in Perceptor's hand beeped its readiness. He peered down at it for a moment, blinked, and then looked again. The readings didn't change.

"Ratchet," he said, "You ought to have a look at this."

It was fortunate that Wheeljack had come back online when he did. He was able to understand details of the analysis that the other non-engineers had missed. His assistance was invaluable, but Perceptor and Ratchet really did wish he would quit being distracted by the absorption crystals, which now hung in the air like frozen purple raindrops after soaking up his spilled energon, somewhat analogous to balloons and helium.

"—and this all means," said Wheeljack after a short spiel of technobabble as he stared up at some crystals which had reached the ceiling, "that we know effectively nothing."

"Then what was the point of the last two minutes?" demanded Ratchet. "Dramatic buildup?"

"No, not entirely," said Wheeljack.

Ratchet did not look pacified in the least. However, Perceptor seemed to have caught on.

"He simply means," explained Perceptor, "that the fact that we know nothing is significant. These instruments should have told us everything. Something has to be blocking them, and designed specifically for the purpose—"

"—meaning that this guy has something to hide," finished Wheeljack.

"Oh," said Ratchet, nonplussed. " I got that."

"You did?"

"You didn't?" Ratchet scowled at Wheeljack over his blowtorch. "The guy shows up, shoots a few Decepticons, and runs, and then he won't answer any of your questions, and then he shoots you and promptly passes out. I thought it was obvious."

Wheeljack considered this. "Fair point."

Perceptor shook his head at this exchange. Such was Wheeljack-Ratchet communication. He tried to draw attention back to the analysis.

"Now, there are certainly more tests we can run, but it's likely that they will be a waste of time," said Perceptor. "I suggest we immediately start work on a way to bypass whatever is blocking our scanners."

"Do you suppose we can work energon crystals into that?" asked Wheeljack. He batted absently at one that hung above his head.

Ratchet intended to reply in a way that cannot be printed. As such, Perceptor was required to cut him off.

"Yes, Wheeljack, I'm sure we can," replied the scientist smoothly as he hurried to reactivate some of Wheeljack's sensors. He suspected that Ratchet had deadened too many, producing the Painkiller Effect.

* * *

In the pitch darkness of the cockpit, a light flickered on, then off. Soft curses, then a click. The light was back.

She held the flashlight out before her in triumph. Its generator was a tricky, small, and convoluted piece of work, hard to start up, but now it was on and that was what counted. She unbuckled herself from the restraints and unplugged the linkup cord for complete freedom of movement, then got vertical. She rummaged through the open compartment she had gotten the flashlight out of with new zeal.

There was no point in sitting idle while she waited for sufficient power. Surely, she could find some use for all the gizmos and bits of metal she had packed into storage. After all, even her suit had been made out of basic components, albeit enhanced. She scooped up a handful of screws, the same ones that might have been used to bind together her footpads, and set them in her lap. She looked for the wrench which would tighten them, and the leftover steel and wiring from when she had linked together some joints. And there was a bit of plating, and there a roll of copper wire, and pliers.

The components lay scattered around her as she sat wracking her brains on the cushioned seat back. She had everything she needed—but for what, exactly? To think that her plans might go awry for lack of imagination! Desperately she cast her thoughts back to the battle earlier that evening. She remembered the lasers, the explosions, the towering walls of boxes… and a small robotic construct shaped like a bird which flew above her head, cawing. Red and white and black it was, with optics that glinted in the cold, artificial light.

_Yes, _she thought, her hands beginning to play with the beautifully smooth metals. They felt softer than silk, more pure and clean than water. Even if they had flaked with rust as she ran her fingertips across them, they would have seemed better to her skin than the most versatile fabric. Here was an idea she could use. Here, sprung from memory in the dwindling safety of her cockpit, was a charted course. It would not save her, but perhaps it would help. Perhaps it would allow her to see a new way to proceed which eluded her here, where her suit lay offline but protecting her still. Its layers of sturdy metal concealed her faithfully as she worked at new-forming designs somewhere in the Autobot base.

* * *

Once Wheeljack started drifting away into his own thoughts again and not bothering to articulate whatever ideas were mingling in his processor, Ratchet deemed him fit to work, and together with Perceptor they ended up consulting an unlikely book of tricks after all ordinary means failed.

That book was Cybertronic Reverse Engineering for Those Whose Egos Need Busting, if anyone cares enough to inquire. Ratchet only kept it around so he could use it to annoy Wheeljack when the inventor injured himself in yet another accident. The ridiculously fat and cuttingly sardonic (its auditory feature was voiced by a sneering Frenchman) data pad it was encased in was too outmoded to be of much practical use—excepting, of course, the title—and thus the three worn-out and frustrated mechs turned to it as a last resort at around five o' clock in the morning, if only for the comedic value. And so the data pad lay emitting a heavily accented voice and a visible air of condescension on an empty berth, looked down on—or rather gaped at—by Perceptor, Ratchet, and Wheeljack.

"Step _Un_," proclaimed the voice, "obtain a wrench. Step _Deux, _pick up _ze _wrench, and proceed to hit yourself on _ze _head vith it, for zomeone as _ignorant_ as _you—"_ (and it spat the word mightily) "—could never hope to attain such genius as _moi_! If you should happen to survive to Step _Trois—_"

"Great Cybertron," exclaimed Ratchet, aghast, momentarily drowning out Step _Trois. _"I never quite believe my memory when it tells me how _bad _this thing is, but then I turn it back on, and everything comes flooding on back."

"And this is just the dedication," muttered Wheeljack. "I hope you're feeling some sympathy right now, Ratch', for all the times—"

"You deserved it."

Perceptor sighed and turned off the data pad before it could go on to the Step which described where exactly one should stick the wrench (with a detailed explanation on why). Apparently even their last-ditch effort had failed.

Suddenly, Ratchet seized upon an idea. He went to his toolbox by the black mech's berth and started digging through it again with fervor.

"Ratchet, what are you—" Perceptor began, but was cut off.

"A wrench," Ratchet said shortly, and pulled out a sizable one from the toolbox.

Wheeljack thought back to the ego-busting book and decided he liked where this was going. However, the Frenchman's advice was disregarded. Ratchet promptly bent over the black mech and started tinkering with one white shoulder bulb.

"Ratchet, I'm sure Optimus Prime would object to dismantling him," Perceptor pointed out.

"But can he object to disarming him?" Ratchet demanded. A seam-divider extended from one of his fingertips. He inserted it into the side of the bulb and twisted it about. His movements were quick and forceful, and some minute scratches in the white paint appeared. "What do we even know about this guy? We can't even tell what his specs are, not from our scanners. All we get is a vague energy reading which keeps inching up towards minimum operating capacity on its own. We need to find out _something, _and if we disarm him in the process, all the better. Besides, I want a look at these lasers. Based on Wheeljack's wound, they might be more primitive than we imagined."

"That does make logical sense," admitted Perceptor. He frowned as he watched Ratchet ease open the first seam and go on to the next. "However, I still find it wrong to take apart someone who may not be our enemy."

"He shot at Wheeljack."

"But he wasn't hostile," said Wheeljack, who now watched Ratchet work from the other side of the berth, having circled around slowly. "I don't think he meant to hurt me."

Ratchet scowled. He gave the seam-divider one violent twist and scoured a mark down one side of the bulb, and it popped open with a clack. "What do you mean? He _chose_ to fire." He began working to separate the two halves.

"It could have been a response to panic, kind of like a human soldier's finger-twitch reaction."

"It's plausible," agreed Perceptor. "If his systems are more primitive than ours, we can assume that his weapons are more difficult to control under extreme stress, especially if a self-preservation command sequence was involved."

Ratchet had to acknowledge that. He was, after all, a medic, and he knew how such things worked. However, that begged the question—why the extreme stress? Why the panic?

As though reading his mind, Wheeljack recalled, "He wasn't afraid of being shot. I actually had my blaster lowered a little bit when his lasers focused on me again. It was when I started questioning him that he panicked."

"Oh, that reminds me," said Perceptor, "you probably could have handled that better."

Wheeljack said nothing, but nodded guiltily. He knew he changed subtly when on the battlefield. Automatically, as soon as he picked up a blaster, his eccentricity would retreat and hide somewhere the war could never reach, leaving only cool logic. It was how he coped, the same way all of them held on to themselves through millions of years of war. Ratchet was temperamental to hide his care for his friends. Ironhide stayed tough to keep the rest of him from weathering away. Optimus Prime threw himself in the line of fire because he could not sacrifice his compassion. A mech did not necessarily like the soldier he became, but it was the lesser of two evils.

"Got it," said Ratchet. He removed the two bulb-haves from the shoulder and set them on a workbench. Now they could see the bulbs as from the inside, and also the exposed wires meant to power the laser.

It was indeed primitive, more like Earth's technology than Cybertron's, though the two could seem remarkably similar from the outside. This laser contained no energon lines. There was no separation of the metal into two distinct layers of protoform and plating. The scratches in the bulb's paint revealed that the metal underneath gave off a luster almost but not quite like steel. A few more discreet scratches in key places which Ratchet insisted on making on the unconscious mech revealed that every section of his body was of the same make. Perceptor put the paint shavings through a scanner and concluded that it was indeed of Earthly origin. Wheeljack, meanwhile, carefully examined all hinges and seams he could find. He discovered that the black helmet-visor of one-way glass could not be flipped up, but he refrained from testing its resilience.

Around dawn, the three sat down facing the medical computer terminal to discuss what they had learned. The great luminescent screen before them displayed all the readings they had taken and notes on significant observations.

"That energy reading still bugs me," Ratchet said at last. He pushed a button, and the window he had indicated expanded to display itself in larger print. "It's most concentrated in the chest, but there's little or no circulation to the extremities."

"Could it be possible that he really does operate without a protoform?" wondered Perceptor. "With no energon lines to catalyze microscopic repairs, parts of him should be breaking down all the time."

"And nothing gushed out when you broke open that turret," added Wheeljack, pointing to the bulb where it lay dismantled on the workbench. "I looked it over myself. There's no system for self-repair, at least not in these weapons."

"They could have been constructed here on Earth as additions," suggested Perceptor. "The rotating turrets are inspired constructions, but not particularly difficult to build and integrate."

"But how were they integrated? With these primitive wires—"

Ratchet frowned thoughtfully. "That's right. Cybertronian linkups are completely different. Regular wires shouldn't be compatible with them, at least not well enough for a panicked state of mind to make them fire." He shook his head impatiently. "We're going around in circles. What we need is—"

He stopped at a barely-audible clack from behind them. It was subtle but definite, like the opening or closing of a hatch. In a moment, it came again. Ratchet stood and turned about.

"Ironhide," he called, "is that you?"

"What's that, Ratchet?" The doors on the other side of the medbay slid open with a hiss to reveal Ironhide, who had been standing guard in case the black mech awoke and made a hazard of himself.

"Did you tap on the door just then?" asked Ratchet.

"No, can't say I did. Why?"

"We heard something just now."

"Well, it wasn't me. You sure it wasn't that guy waking up?" Ironhide indicated the black mech, who hadn't moved from where he lay on the berth.

"I don't think so, but we'll check." Ratchet beckoned two Wheeljack and Perceptor. All three crossed to where the black mech lay and examined him as Ironhide moved away from the door to take a look for himself.

None of them saw a strange, mouselike creature with an antenna for a tail slip out through the open medbay doors.

* * *

_And that concludes Chapter Three. There wasn't really any action, but I did manage to get in the first few hints of psychology. I expect to make the next much more eventful. As always, I welcome critique and suggestions via PM and/or review. Remember that I am writing this primarily because I love the Transformers and writing, but also because I want to become a better writer. _


	4. Enter the Mouse

Author's Note: _Hello again, and welcome to Chapter Four: Enter the Mouse! Kudos to those of you who eventually get the slight pun/foreshadowing in that. I appreciate all of you who have read, reviewed, and stuff, and I hope you like this next chapter. _

Disclaimer: I do not own the Transformers.

* * *

Enter the Mouse

* * *

The robo-mouse zipped along through the corridors in the early hours near dawn, alone and inconspicuous. On its fabric-muffled underside were the wheels that propelled its motion. Its small ears served as audio sensors, and its eyes were of course the optics. The nose was mainly for decoration; she hadn't been able integrate a sense of smell, but there wasn't much point in that anyway. From its aft end protruded the radio transmitter that sent back information and received commands.

However, talking about what the human said and thought and which kinds of buttons she pressed isn't very exciting, so for the purposes of the rest of this little tale the mouse will be assumed to have a mind of its own and will simply relay information back to the engineer. How this realistically happened has been declared an open-ended question. Engineers are remarkably inventive, after all. Clearly ours thought of something.

::_Cheez-007, report._::

The command shot like an electric current from the tip of the mouse's tail to the end of its polished nose. It jumped. It "squeaked". A quick flurry of information went back and forth. (The engineer had hooked up the flashlight to the viewing screen to the radio transmitter, so one generator—the flashlight's—now powered all three.)

::_No squeaking, Cheez-007. Proceed with exploration._::

The mouse squeaked in affirmation. (It was a high-pitched muted computerized beep, really.) It proceeded on, through corridor after corridor and hallway after hallway, passing room after room, and eventually getting nowhere significant, though presumably its engineer was assembling a map of the base. This proceeded without incident until the mouse managed to circle around to the Medbay doors again. Just as it stopped to peer around the door-frame, the doors whished back. The mouse refrained from squeaking. A pair of enormous, white metal boots stepped out and turned to walk in a direction which took it away from the mouse.

Immediately, there came another command. ::_Cheez-007, follow. Activate stealth mode._::

Cheez-007 (having figured out his name by that point) did not have the slightest clue as to what stealth mode was supposed to be. He decided to simply remain inconspicuous and follow at a distance, ready to jump behind… well, something. There wasn't much hiding potential in the well-maintained, bare corridor.

Once the giant pair of boots got far enough ahead, Cheez-007 could see that there was more to them than met the eye. Apparently there was a pair of legs, too, and then a chassis, and then a whole body, and a head with ear-fins. He, a mere robo-mouse, wondered at that. Such complexity in those circuits he could see through the joints! He almost forgot to duck behind corners and do other such inconspicuous things every now and then. When the mech arrived at another door, he began to key in a passcode on the small panel on the wall.

::_Cheez-007, full speed ahead! Get inside that door!_::

"Squeak!" Cheez-007 spazzed again at the command and darted forward. The doors slid open—ten feet away—the mech stepped in—nine feet—

Back in her dimly lit cockpit, the engineer cursed. He wasn't going to make it.

"SQUEAK!"

Cheez didn't know a thing about stealth mode, but he did have Rocket Turbo Mode, as of an instant ago because he just invented it. He gave his motor systems such a jolt that he instantly shot forward three feet with a burst of smoke and a small emission of yellow-orange sparks and went sailing through the air. It was like a mini Fourth of July. He handed with a thump and took another flying leap, and this time there was a trail of flame that followed him through the air. The boots turned around, probably alerted by the two sounds of impact and accompanying explosions, but the door was already sliding shut.

Three more feet.

He wasn't going to make it.

"_SQUEAK!"_

Cheez gave his loudest, most piercing squeak ever. His bright little eyes glinted with determination. His ears would have flattened if robo-ears could do that sort of thing. And his smart antenna-tail was starkly outlined by the sudden gout of flame, sparks, and smoke that burst out of his emergency propulsion hatch. He exploded into the air and flew forward with such sudden haste and zeal that he reached a height of at least one foot. The arc of his sudden catapult forward got him to the doors, which were almost closed.

He made it… and was brought to a jarring halt as the doors arrested him on both sides—a pincer movement! Luckily they were rigged to freeze there so he wasn't crushed, but neither could he move. He squeaked angrily and _vroom_ed his wheels, but to no avail. He was left hanging in midair, staring ahead at the metal boots. He rotated his optics up.

The mech was staring right back at him with absolute incredulity.

"Squeak?"

* * *

There was, for some reason, a robo-mouse stuck between the two doors to his quarters. How exactly it had gotten there, let alone why, was anyone's guess. All he saw was the flying leap and some flames and sparks and smoke. Now it peered up at him with a very steely, lifelike spark in its eyes.

Wheeljack knelt down, and the determined little eyes rotated to follow him. "Well. Hello, there."

"Squeak." The robo-mouse's antenna-tail gave a little twanging twitch from side to side like a dog's would wag.

"My name's Wheeljack. This is my lab. How come you're stuck in my door?"

"Squeak."

This, however, did not help much. Wheeljack didn't speak Squeak.

The robo-mouse revved its engine, and its wheels spun, but it remained stuck in empty air. It could not seem to get unstuck from the doors. That was understandable; the sturdy doors to Wheeljack's lab were built to withstand periodic explosions. The Autobots had made them into marvels of engineering. In fact, it was a common joke around the base that Wheeljack's lab was better reinforced than the brig. A lone robo-mouse would not get free on its own, no matter how long it hung there.

Wheeljack peered at the odd metal creature. It stared back at him with beady, artificial eyes. No Decepticon insignia was evident from where he stood, but that meant nothing. After all, had not he recently been shot recently by a certain robot without an insignia, albeit unintentionally? It wouldn't hurt to be cautious and check this construction out thoroughly.

Embedded on the wall to his right was the panel to open the doors. It operated by a single touch, and immediately, with no exceptions—a safety mechanism that had been utilized more than once in the past to clear the air after an accident when smoke built up. That way, no one inside would be trapped with insufficient visibility to punch in numbers on a keypad. Wheeljack reached out to it now, not moving from his position, and at the same time he extended his left arms so his hand could catch the mouse as it dropped.

_Beep. _His right hand brushed the sensitive panel, and the doors pulled back with a sound of whispery, sliding metal. The robo-mouse dropped with the expected squeak. He caught it, and there came a small muffled thump as it landed, though it seemed unhurt and content to sit still. He stood carefully, balancing the robo-mouse in his hand, and closed the doors. He crossed the room to his workbench.

Wheeljack took the robo-mouse in two fingers of his right hand and picked it up, rotating it so he could see the underside. The mouse squeaked at the indignity but offered no violent resistance. No weapons were apparent, only wheels with a padded underside. That last explained why it had not landed in his palm with a clatter. He turned it right side up again and set it on a clear area of his workbench.

The mouse immediately squeaked and wheeled in a tight circle. It then darted here and there, nosing at his scattered tools. It was a good thing someone had come in and cleaned up the shrapnel from the earlier explosion. Primus only knew what the workbench would have looked like if that hadn't been taken care of. Probably he wouldn't have been able to watch the mouse run around, let alone set it down, all for lack of enough cleared-off space and likely some still-smoldering pieces of metal.

At this point, it occurred to Wheeljack to inform someone else who could feasibly help of his little visitor. An all-purpose scientist would be best. He contacted Perceptor. ::Hey, Perceptor! I've got something here.::

In a moment, there came a reply. ::What is it, Wheeljack?::

::Come take a look at _this_.:: Wheeljack sent an image of the mouse on his desk over the transmission.

::Goodness!:: Perceptor's voice showed genuine surprise. ::Where did you find that?::

::Stuck in the doors to my lab. I got it loose and put it on my workbench.:: Wheeljack refocused on the robo-mouse and sent over a quick video feed.

The rodent in question kept squeaking and making furious darts to random places and objects on the workbench. When it got tired of that it wheeled a circuit around the edge of the bench and gazed on the rest of his disorganized workshop. Whoever had done the cleanup knew better than to try putting his piles of metal and wiring into any sort of order, but that mech had straightened his shelves of projects. They lined each wall, displaying everything from peaceable scanners to flying sphere-scouts. Wheeljack's visitor no doubt found its new surroundings fascinating.

::It keeps running around:: he added, somewhat unnecessarily.

::Hold on. I'm entering the security code as we speak.::

To Wheeljack's left, the doors drew open to admit Perceptor, the Autobots' red-and-blue scientist. On him the colors seemed more solemn and more deeper than on Optimus Prime. Perhaps it was the lack of white. More reflective. More pensive. But when one looked at the optics, one could see a constant fire of curiosity.

"No new progress on the stranger, I'm afraid," said Perceptor. "And here you are presenting us with another mystery."

"What do you think of it?" Wheeljack asked, eyeing the mouse. It had stopped and turned to peer at the two mechs.

"Well, what have you found?"

"Not much. I haven't had time. But I _can_ tell you it's not dangerous. No weapons anywhere that I can see, and no Decepticon symbol either. It hasn't done anything but run around and bump into my tools."

"Hmm… I see." Perceptor extended his hand to the robo-mouse. Surprisingly, it squeaked and hopped on by the judicious use of fire and smoke.

"That's how it got stuck in my door," said Wheeljack as Perceptor turned the (protesting) mouse this way and that. "Except that time the fire was ten times bigger and it went sailing a couple feet through the air."

Perceptor smiled. He could well imagine this feisty thing in such an endeavor. "Well, I've never heard of a robotic mouse, and I know that they aren't native to Earth or Cybertron. Let's run some tests and see what we can find."

And so they ran every test they could think of, which pretty much amounted to what they had done the previous night, but this time they got results. The robo-mouse ran on an independent generator fueled by a kind of magnetic double windmill. The magnets' opposing charges would turn the mill and generate a constant flow of energy. It was an obscure and archaic method of energy production on Cybertron which did not produce much energon, but it required no continuous source of fuel and was therefore efficient enough for small devices. A mechanism something like it powered data pads and scanners. On Earth, it had only just come into the mainstream, and it was groundbreaking stuff to the humans, who used much less energy in their daily lives than Cybertronians.

"I seem to recall," said Perceptor as they looked over these readings, "that Earth's independent generators were invented by the same human who made a breakthrough in prosthetics a short while before our arrival here on Earth. It involves a way to transmit nerve impulses through wiring by use of a two-way connector port linking the nervous system to an artificial limb. He or she studied for a while in Japan, I believe, under a certain Dr. Fujiyama."

"The same Dr. Fujiyama who built Nightbird?"

"Precisely."

_Earth… Dr. Fujiyama… Groundbreaking… Nightbird…_

Suddenly, the two mechs were seized by an idea at exactly the same moment. They looked up from their scanners, saw the look in the other's optics, and barely bothered to verify that they were thinking the same thing before they made straight for Teletraan-1, robo-mouse in Perceptor's hand, doors sliding closed behind them.

* * *

_And that was Chapter Four! Thank you very much for reading. As always, I welcome any comments and critique. If you feel so inclined, please let me know what you think! _

_~Squirrel_


	5. Analysis II: Fun with Computers

Author's Note #1: So here it is at last! I know the wait was long, but this is no puny chapter. Just look at the scrollbar. _Look_ at it! Now that's what I'm talking about. Anyways, I hope you enjoy Analysis II: Fun with Computers.

(Author's Note #2 is at the end.)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the trademarks which are included in this story.

**

* * *

**

Analysis II: Fun with Computers

* * *

They were lucky to be able to reach Dr. Fujiyama, Wheeljack reflected. Japan ran upwards on six hours behind most parts of the United States, so it was currently the middle of the night in Tokyo. They had called the university's lab through the same channel which had brought about the whole Nightbird incident. A student aide who looked rather sleep deprived had answered the video communicator. She had blinked her heavy eyelids, adjusted her glasses, yawned, and listened as they explained the issue, then gone to fetch the professor and likely a cup of coffee without further ado.

"It's a good thing he's still in his office," commented Wheeljack in the silence while they waited. "I wonder what he's working on so late at night."

"It could be any number of things," replied Perceptor. He smiled. "It appears you're not the only one to forego sleep when working on a project."

Just then, the aide reentered the screen, followed by a Japanese man in a business suit. He somehow managed to look dignified despite the scattered scuff marks on his clothing and the way he had to squint into the glare of the screen. Despite obvious fatigue, he showed no signs of ennui. Like all curious minds, he did not work; he played.

"Ah, the Autobots!" His tired face lit up with new interest as he bowed. "I must apologize for my appearance. How may I be of assistance?"

Since Perceptor held the robo-mouse, he stepped forward. "Dr. Fujiyama," he said, "do you recall the robot called Nightbird which you designed approximately three years ago?"

"Yes, of course. She is in stasis now, but her algorithms have opened up a whole new way of looking at artificial intelligence." (Then he seemed to remember to whom he was speaking.) "Ah! I say _artificial_ because we really have created it in isolated cases, which are by no means advanced. It is different from pure inorganic life, which arises—"

"It's all right, Doctor," interrupted Perceptor hurriedly. "No offense taken." Both he and Wheeljack preferred not to go into why the Cybertronians would be considered artificial intelligence by that coming definition.

"We've contacted you," said Wheeljack, "to talk to you about that—artificial intelligence, I mean."

"Ah, do you mean my current research? My aides and I are assembling a network of computers to simulate the interconnected cells of the human brain."

The aide took a sip from her newly acquired, steaming cup of coffee. The taste of it seemed to reinvigorate her. When Dr. Fujiyama had to stop talking for a yawn, she broke into the conversation. "Assembling it isn't the hard part, you know," she explained. "We're tweaking it and taking readings and stuff. We're not going for a superbrain, just some idea of how the interactions would play out in one."

"Which will lay the foundation for work later on," called another, male voice from somewhere offscreen.

Perceptor had to visibly yank himself out of a thought process in order to get into the business at hand. He could always ponder the professor's project later. "Actually," he began, "we were wondering… about this." He raised his open palm to the screen.

The robo-mouse squeaked and twitched its tail.

Dr. Fujiyama blinked. (The aide was enjoying her coffee so much, eyes blissfully closed, that she did not even notice.)

"What is that?" he asked, at length.

"We don't know," answered Wheeljack. "I found it in—well, almost in; it was stuck in my door—by my lab earlier. It's smart, and it's got a personality."

"Are you sure?" asked Dr. Fujiyama.

The robo-mouse squeaked again, quite loudly.

"I'd say that's a _yes_, Doc," said Wheeljack.

"But how?"

"That was what we hoped you could tell us," said Perceptor. "We have nothing like it on Cybertron—"

"Except petrorabbits," put in Wheeljack. "And robo-bunnies. And cyberferrets. Really, now that I think about it, the whole place was overrun with the things. You'd think a planet's ecosystem would have more variety than that, but—"

"Wheeljack, please," interrupted Perceptor.

"Sorry. The point is, we never had mice." He thought for a moment, then added, "Personally, I'd put it down to the lack of bread crumbs."

Perceptor sighed inwardly. "So we concluded that it had to have been designed on Earth," he continued. "After numerous tests, we found that humans would have the technology to design it. For example, this little fellow uses an independent magnetized generator. We were hoping that you could help us discover where it is from, and who made it."

"I can tell you that it is not from my lab," said Dr. Fujiyama. He glanced at his aide as though expecting her to confirm it, but unfortunately she was still draining her (remarkably large) cup (read: jug) of coffee. He went on. "We have not been working with any real constructed, thinking entities since Nightbird, and I have heard nothing from other universities. I cannot speak for individuals, however, or groups that might be pursuing artificial intelligence in their spare time. I understand that America has a strong internet base for such projects."

"Do you know of anyone who would have the means to construct it?" asked Perceptor.

"The construction, anyone with an engineering background could do. The actual programming… that is more difficult, but still possible, especially for a person who thought to read my paper which I published on Nightbird."

"But why would it be in the Autobot base?"

Dr. Fujiyama shrugged. "It could be that the person who built it, being interested in artificial intelligence, decided to study the Autobots. Have you checked it for a transmitter?"

"Of course," said Perceptor. "We found nothing."

Wheeljack frowned behind his mask and shifted his feet. "We checked for a _signal_," he corrected his friend. "But that doesn't mean there's no transmission going on in the times when we don't check."

Then it hit Perceptor, too. "Ah, yes… The benefit of an artificially intelligent spy is that it can function independently of the observer behind it…"

"Even when the transmission is cut," finished Wheeljack. "So we wouldn't know what was going on. All the person watching has to do is cut the signal before we do the test. Then the spy reestablishes contact after it's safe using a program built in beforehand. So the test wouldn't do any good." He paused. "That reminds me—have you heard anything new from Ratchet?"

"No, nothing. He assured me when I left that he would notify me soon about the results of his tests on the laser—" Perceptor broke off suddenly and blinked. "Ah. Here it is now. Just a moment." His optics, previously focused on his friend, took on a faraway look as he examined Ratchet's report.

Dr. Fujiyama looked slightly lost at this point, so Wheeljack brought him up to speed about the black mech who had inexplicably turned up at the Decepticons' routine attack on the power plant. He explained about the chaos visible when the Autobots arrived on the scene, his strange encounter with the mech in question which had resulted in his own injury and the other's capture, and Ratchet's observation that the laser blast straight to his chassis had not caused as much damage as it should have. He outlined the situation in the medbay and what they had puzzled over so far. By the time he was done (and it was a relatively short time), so was Perceptor with analyzing his message from Ratchet.

"Ratchet has finished the tests I suggested before leaving the medbay in response to your comm, Wheeljack," said Perceptor as soon as Wheeljack had provided sufficient background information and nodded to indicate that he should begin. "Since our advanced scanners proved useless, our next option involved a physical and chemical analysis. We now know the composition of two key areas with certainty.

"The first point of interest is the armor. It is an alloy of steel and Cybertronium, but primarily steel—which is in itself an alloy. It is extremely durable, though much weaker than pure Cybertronium would be. The paint is closest to the specific blend used in Presidential vehicles, with the same finish. It is not scratched easily by any substance but diamonds and Cybertronium. It resists heat and water.

"The wire providing energy to the laser is indeed an alloy composed of Earth metals and insulated in the way of most electrical cables here. The current which would normally flow to the lasers appears to be inactive at the moment, but when Sparkplug arrived this morning with Spike, he was able to use his equipment to run a charge through it, which confirmed beyond a doubt that the stranger does not operate on the typical Cybertronian power supply, energon."

Wheeljack nodded at this last. "That would explain the lack of auto-repair."

"Energon acts as a catalyst for auto-repair," explained Perceptor to Dr. Fujiyama and the still-oblivious aide (who had at some point wandered of the screen for a second gallon of coffee and come back without showing any sign of being aware of the conversation), "allowing pure Cybertronium plating to regenerate."

"And any mech without auto-repair would break down pretty fast from small internal wounds," said Wheeljack. "Kind of like if something was wrong with your immune system or blood clotting."

"I do see why you would call me for help, then," said Dr. Fujiyama. "You describe something an individual might be capable of building. Artificial intelligence might also explain his strange behavior when you confronted him."

Wheeljack noticed that Dr. Fujiyama used the pronouns _he_ and _him_. But then, he used _she _and _her _in reference to Nightbird, while most people he had spoken to long ago at Nightbird's unveiling had unfailingly used _it_. Oddly, he couldn't now recall which he, Wheeljack, had used throughout the whole scenario. For some reason, that bothered him.

"How so, Doctor?" asked Perceptor.

"All artificial intelligence which can be built at this time requires a general network of programs and logic algorithms. If incoming data or inquiries are too foreign and the system is not equipped to deal with them, errors can occur, perhaps explaining the 'panic' your stranger showed."

"But wouldn't the creator have anticipated such questions?"

"I do not know. I would think so. However, that is the only explanation I can give you at this time."

Perceptor thought for a moment, then nodded. "All right. Thank you, Dr. Fujiyama. We have no more questions—"

"Except one," interrupted Wheeljack. "Are you sure your aide should be drinking so much coffee?"

Dr. Fujiyama started and looked to his right. The aide was chugging her coffee with gusto.

The expression on Dr. Fujiyama's face assumed an unmistakably weary version of _Oh no, not again._

Before anything could be said, however, the aide took one last gulp, finished her coffee, and threw it over her shoulder. It hit someone offscreen in the back of the head. "Hey!" cried the same male voice from before. The aide didn't seem to notice, for she had now focused her one-track mind on the screen before her.

Dr. Fujiyama cleared his throat. "Minerva, why—"

"_Oh my gosh!_"squealed the aide (with suspiciously good timing). "Is that a _robot mouse_?"

"Well, yes—"

"Oh my gosh! It's so _cute_!"

Dr. Fujiyama sighed. The mouse squeaked.

* * *

After the aide baby-talked the mouse a little and snapped a few pictures of it ("_Just wait till I show Susan over spring break! She'll totally flip!"_), Wheeljack and Perceptor concluded the conversation and switched off the communicator. They made their way to the medbay, robo-mouse in hand, to review Ratchet's findings.

When they entered, Ratchet was holding a reassembled bulb of white metal in his hand and frowning irritably at it. He acknowledged the two's arrival with a nod and a brief glance, but his expression did not change. He continued poking and prodding at it with the tool in his other hand. Occasionally he glanced at a data pad hooked up to the tool with a thin cable which lay on the workbench.

"Hey, Ratchet," called Wheeljack, "What's that?"

"It's an electro-stimulator," explained Perceptor, who had clearly expected that this would be the kind of thing they would see upon entrance—Ratchet with an instrument and Ratchet irritated with an instrument. "I also suggested a conductivity test for the armor plating, and the detached lasers seemed like the obvious place to start."

"I haven't gotten beyond them yet," said Ratchet. He gave the bulb one last zap, stared at the data pad until it blinked a yellow happy face across the screen indicating that the reading had been recorded successfully, and put the zapper back on the bench. He disconnected the pad and handed it to Perceptor, who began to look over it.

Wheeljack peered at it over his shoulder, but he couldn't get a good look at the numbers. "Ratch', where'd you get this thing?"

"Wal-Mart, apparently," grumbled Ratchet as the happy face flared across the screen once again to make sure they all knew that things were still A-OK. "Sparkplug brought it in, said we could use it. He went off somewhere, but he'll be back later."

At this point, Perceptor finally noticed Wheeljack's unsuccessful efforts to read over his shoulder. He pressed a button on the pad. Its readings appeared on the medbay computer's screen along with a 3-D wire-form representation of the laser bulb.

"Now, look at this," said Ratchet. He pressed a button on the computer terminal, and a complex web of yellow lines appeared on the bulb's surface. "What we're looking at is all the areas on this little contraption that are especially good conductors, even through the finish. My guess is that they're a transmission system like ours."

"Or the human nervous system," said Perceptor.

"We just talked to Dr. Fujiyama," explained Wheeljack, "and he thinks this guy could be artificial intelligence. Also, we found something that might be related."

"What?" asked Ratchet.

Wheeljack opened his hand and held out the robo-mouse which had so far been concealed.

"No pets in the medbay," said Ratchet automatically. Then he shook his head. "Sorry. Issue with Spike the other day. Long story. What is that, anyway?"

"It's an artificially intelligent, robotic mouse," said Perceptor as Wheeljack handed the robo-mouse over to Wheeljack. "Wheeljack found it in—"

"Stuck in the doors to," corrected Wheeljack.

"—his lab," finished Perceptor.

Ratchet blinked. "How did that happen?"

"I don't know," said Wheeljack. "I just walked into my lab, heard an explosion, turned around, and there it was, flying through the air at me. The doors closed on it, though. Kind of anti-climactic after the fireworks and smoke."

The mouse squeaked and twitched its tail at Ratchet.

"I see."

While Ratchet watched the robo-mouse run laps around his palm, Perceptor and Wheeljack brought him up to speed on their conversation with Dr. Fujiyama. The medic found Dr. Fujiyama's statement that potentially any human could build something like Nightbird particularly interesting. He agreed that the mouse and the black mech were probably connected somehow, but he didn't seem convinced by the artificial intelligence idea, pointing out the same holes Perceptor had.

"The mouse is built to spy," he pointed out. "Why put us on our guard with something else?"

Not a Cybertronian, not artificial intelligence. Human technology in the style of an alien planet galaxies away. A random appearance at a battle and then a robotic mouse out of nowhere just to top it all off.

It just did not add up.

* * *

"Hey, bro!" Sunstreaker waved at Sideswipe, who sat on a berth on the other side of their quarters. "Does this look dented to you?" He pointed at some indistinguishable speck of something or other on his shoulder.

Sideswipe didn't even look up from the report he was being forced to write by a certain second-in-command and also by a certain yellow mech who refused to do anything but complain about his dents. "I expect it looks just fine compared to the size of the one in your head."

Sunstreaker spun around to face the mirror, alarmed. "Where?"

"Exactly." Sideswipe ended the sentence he was on with a flourish that produced something like a mutated squiggle instead of a period and lowered the pad. "Look, doing this report would be fine if I hadn't been unconscious for the part Prowl wants me to write about. Want to tell me what you remember, or should I make it up?"

Sunstreaker forgot the nonexistent dent in his head and brightened. "Oh, yeah! I've been meaning to show you that. The look on Starscream's face when those boxes collapsed… Priceless!"

Sideswipe felt his own face break into a grin. "Boy, I wish I could 'a seen that. Please tell me you recorded it."

"I recorded it."

"Ha! It's so going on YouTube."

The two lunged for the door, took a sharp left, and raced to Teletraan-1, almost bumping into Wheeljack and Perceptor on the way. The inventor and scientist must have been doing something or other on the _Ark's_ computer, and now they had left, which meant the terminal was open. What luck!

Sunstreaker claimed the chair and wirelessly synched with Teletraan-1 (which he could do because the Autobot ship's master computer had that special capability). He uploaded the file, which appeared in its own little window. He pulled up the internet and signed in to YouTube.

"Username: SunnySide," he said aloud as he typed in their login information.

"Sounds like bad fanfiction," muttered Sideswipe.

"Password," Sunstreaker went on. He took a quick look around to make sure no one was listening in, leaned in close to the computer, and whispered, "Transform and roll out!" He pushed the corresponding keys rapidly. He pressed ENTER. They were in.

"Hey, would you look at that!" exclaimed Sideswipe. "Our Jet Judo has six million views already!"

"Yeah, but Mr. Numa Numa is still beating us," pointed out Sunstreaker. "We need more videos on here if we want to beat him for total views. This ought to do it."

"Hang on. I want to see it first." Sideswipe started a drumroll. "Play it, play it!"

"I'm playing it."

The scene from the previous evening came up and filled the screen, as seen from the yellow twin's optics. Starscream loomed above where Sunstreaker had been. The Seeker took slow, deliberate steps forward. He charged his Nul-Ray, and Sunstreaker's blaster rose up in response. Just as Starscream's finger tensed to pull the trigger, the wall of boxes on one side exploded into the aisle. A look of priceless confusion and surprise flickered across his face for a millisecond. The millisecond passed. Starscream, the great Seeker, had been defeated by boxes.

Sideswipe collapsed on the floor laughing, and Sunstreaker nearly fell out of his chair.

"Upload it!" gasped Sideswipe. He tried to stand up, failed, tried again, and gave up.

"Hold—on," his brother managed to choke out. He started to click the appropriate button. He reached for it. His eyes were alight with enthusiasm. Nothing could ruin this moment.

A white-plated hand thumped down on Sunstreaker's shoulder.

"What are you two doing?" demanded Prowl.

The fun stopped.

"Oh, you know…" Sideswipe got up with effort and dusted himself off. He wiped tears of laughter from his optics. "The usual."

"I can see that," said Prowl, "but why does today's prank involve rolling on the floor? Should Ratchet be concerned?"

"It's on the Decepticons this time," protested Sunstreaker.

"Starscream's been asking for it for a long time now," added Sideswipe.

Clearly Prowl did not understand the import of the situation. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker exchanged a glance, came to the same conclusion, and replayed the video. At the appropriate moment when Starscream briefly gaped at the avalanche of boxes, they watched Prowl like cyber-hawks so they would not miss his reaction, however miniscule.

They need not have worried. Later on, it was said that one could hear the second in command laughing from the other end of the _Ark._

The twins high-fived.

"Sunstreaker, Sideswipe," said Prowl as once he had gotten his breath, "you can forget the report. Just make me a copy of that. It's the part I wanted to review, anyway."

"Will do." Sunstreaker immediately burned the video to a microchip, ejected it, and passed it to Prowl, who nodded and left.

"Glad to see you're out of medbay," called Sideswipe by way of parting, and Prowl waved without breaking stride to show he had heard.

The twins waited exactly three seconds after the sound of Prowl's footsteps faded. Then they erupted into cheers and yelling and more high-fiving. And then they uploaded the video.

* * *

Megatron tapped his fingers distractedly against the armrest of his throne. They made the _clack-clack-clacking_ sound of metal on metal. A technically minded human might have recognized the pattern he tapped them in as binary code. It seemed an idle gesture, but for Megatron, such habits manifested only when he could not marshal his thoughts with the usual ease.

There was the matter of his wound. Such a shot should have been immediately disabling even to a Cybertronian of his build and resilience, but it had taken a delayed effect, weakening him during his battle with Optimus Prime. After that, it should have required at least a few days to repair properly under the supervision of the Decepticon Medic. Now the day after the battle had dawned, and no evidence remained that the wound had ever been.

And then, of course, there was the matter of Starscream, as of two moments ago.

"I'm telling you, they're taunting us!" Starscream shook his fist. "Those Autobots—"

"Quiet, Starscream," snapped Megatron.

"Look at it!" screeched Starscream, paying no heed. "It's humiliating! It's on YouTube, for slag's sake!"

"_What _is on YouTube, Starscream?" asked Megatron. Everything in his expression and tone dripped with disinterest and irritation.

"_Look_ at it!" Starscream pulled up the video which had him so incensed onto the big screen. "See there! We need to teach those Autobots a lesson!"

Megatron eyed the screen. "Starscream, what—" he began to say, and then broke off into maniacal laughter when the boxes crushed Starscream. He only laughed harder when he saw the affronted look on the face of the real Starscream before him. After one good evil chuckle at the end for good measure, he said, "Thank you, Starscream. You have finally proved yourself useful.

"But Megatron—"

"Quiet, Starscream. There is more to this than comedy." Megatron smirked. "Now, play it again."

"But—"

"Do it!"

Starscream resigned himself to his fate. Eight different plots for revenge popped up in his mind partway formed, and he made a note of them for later. For now he pressed the cursed button.

"There," said Megatron suddenly, right at the "good part". "Stop it there."

Starscream complied, not without a flinch. The screen froze at the appropriate moment. The boxes were caught mid-explosion. An image of Starscream stared at them with a look that could only be called priceless.

And in the corner of the screen, visible behind the rain of boxes, was a black mass. Megatron's trained optics had caught it, and his able processor had made the connection.

"Gather the other officers," ordered Megatron. "Show this video to our analysts. We will hold a meeting here in one Earth hour."

Starscream stormed out, grumbling. Megatron watched the doors slide closed. Now he was alone in the Decepticon Command Center.

Megatron glanced up at the screen. He tapped the final digit of his left hand against the throne, completing the sequence of binary code. He allowed his optics to lose focus as he sank into his thoughts.

_And then there was the matter of the stranger._

* * *

Author's Note: And thus concludes the longest chapter yet, weighing in at over 4300 words, for which I did not even have a working title for at first. Thanks, everyone, for reading and/or reviewing! I really love hearing your feedback on this story. It means a lot to me that what I write brings enjoyment to others. So, as usual, I welcome any comments that may come. I hope to have the next chapter up soon.


	6. Drop Me A Line

Just a Spark, Chapter Six:

**Drop Me A Line**

* * *

The house stood a bit apart from the road. Tall grass in the field waved gently in the breeze. It was a peaceful and nondescript place, here on this cool autumn day. The sky was lightly shadowed with clouds left over from the previous night's storm.

Snake glanced above himself warily, as though fearing another downpour. He could still feel the water seeping through his clothing to run unnaturally into his very joints. There was still that lingering cold, and the creaking. Always the creaking.

He had checked the perimeter and found it secure—an old habit, though unnecessary. He moved in silently, steadily, covered head down with a mask across his face. He broke the front door's lock and slipped inside.

He saw a living space sparsely furnished, cleanly kept, though a few pictures hanging upon the wall were filmed over with dust. He passed a kitchen, a bathroom, a study. At last he entered a kind of garage in the back full of tools and metal.

A blueprint tacked to the wall caught his eye, and he approached it, his booted feet tapping precisely on the cement floor. It was marked over almost beyond recognition, in many different pens and over the course of three years, as indicated by dated notes to the side. The final signature in the bottom-right corner was composed of only one word: _Finished. _

He ran his hand across the diagram. The paper crinkled slightly at his touch. He made out the figure of a large, humanoid, robotic suit, made for a single pilot who would control it through one familiar port.

He chuckled—a low, rasping sound. _So, Miss Calvin! _he thought. _So this is what you've been up to!_

* * *

Prowl keyed in the security code to his office and entered. The doors slid shut as he sank down into his chair behind his desk and inserted the microchip that Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had given him into his personal computer. He played it once. He played it twice. He played it again and again—yet he did not laugh. This was business.

At last he froze the screen at the point where the black mech became visible. He unfroze it and then stopped it again precisely at the last frame where that stranger could be seen. He took this segment from the video and burned it onto a second microchip, which he ejected from the computer and slipped into his subspace for safekeeping.

He stood and departed for the command center, where by this time Optimus would be speaking with the human authorities about the previous night's incident at the power plant.

"And you're sure there are no Decepticons left hanging around there?" the plant's spokesman demanded, staring Optimus Prime down through the telecomm with his arms crossed.

Optimus met his gaze without flinching. "Yes. It is safe for you and your men to return to the plant."

Still the man looked on obstinately. Optimus knew what he was thinking. _I thought you Autobots were here to protect us. But yesterday… _

"You have my word," said Optimus.

A pause. The man heaved a sigh and nodded. The video feed cut out.

Optimus regarded the blank screen before turning around to face Jazz and Prowl, the latter having just arrived.

"So that's that, then," Jazz piped up, right on cue. "Problem solved, crisis avoided, report written and sealed away. _Except_." He glanced meaningfully at the door.

Optimus followed his gaze. That door opened into a corridor that led to the medbay. "Indeed."

Prowl stepped forward. "About that, Prime… I've found something which may provide some insight into what happened last night."

"Go ahead."

"You remember Wheeljack's account of the black mech's behavior. He seems to genuinely believe that this mech did not intend to harm him." Prowl reached into his subspace and produced a microchip. "But we could not risk going with his _belief _when all the evidence we knew of at the time indicated otherwise.

"I fully support your decision to keep him under guard here at the base. However, in light of this new evidence which backs up Sunstreaker and Sideswipe's reports of a vague, unknown individual who saved them from certain deactivation at Starscream's hands, I think we should reconsider our approach to the situation as it stands. It would not be wise to alienate a potential ally, or to repay his assistance with treatment appropriate to a criminal."

"That reads like a report itself, Prowl," said Jazz.

"That is my formal statement," retorted Prowl in a tone that said, "_and I hope you were taking notes, because I'm not repeating it._"

"All right then, Prowl," said Optimus. "You may show us your proof."

* * *

Sparkplug was on his way back to the Autobot base at around ten o' clock in the morning when his car lurched suddenly at a turn in the road. It kept going all right, but when he pulled over and got out to see what had happened he found he had a flat tire.

He dug around in the back for his spare and the jack. He set up the jack and pumped until the car was a fair bit off the ground, then removed the faulty tire. He examined it carefully and found that it had been punctured sharply by some unknown object. He stowed it away and fitted the new tire in, then lowered the car and put away the jack.

Before he got back on the road, he thought he'd look around for what had messed up his tire. It wouldn't do for one of the Autobots to need repairs for running over the same object.

This part of the road skirted a hill with gravel and large rocks all across it. Sparkplug circled around to where his car had lurched and found great shards of rock strewn across the pavement, as though they'd been knocked from the hillside. As though they'd been shattered. They blended with the pavement, too, so it was no wonder he had failed to notice them while driving.

Sparkplug stood there and scratched his chin. Now, why would these be here? They hadn't been there earlier that morning. The only thing he could think of was that something had dislodged them from above, and violently. Perhaps an Autobot patrol had landed to survey the territory before moving on. Perhaps—

_Autobots don't fly. _

Sparkplug turned and ran. He jumped into his car and fumbled for his portable commlink (given to himself and Spike by the Autobots for emergencies) with one hand while he started the car with the other. He tuned in to the command frequency.

"Hello, who's this?" It was Red Alert, who monitored the base's security like a lifeline.

"Optimus," Sparkplug managed as he stepped on the gas, racing down the road as fast as he could. "I need to speak to Optimus!"

* * *

A short while after Prowl had presented his proof, the three within the command center—Optimus Prime, Prowl, and Jazz—were surprised to see Red Alert's image pop up onto the giant screen as Teletraan-I routed a telecomm from him to them.

"Sorry to interrupt, Prime, but we may have a problem. I've got Sparkplug on the command frequency, and he says it's urgent."

The image of Red Alert in his office was abruptly replaced by Sparkplug in his construction hat and overalls, leaning forward over the wheel as he drove at breakneck speed. The feed from his mobile communicator jolted at every bump in the road.

"Sparkplug, what is it?" asked Optimus, stepping forward and close to the terminal.

"Optimus, I found a place where Decepticons landed just this morning. I think they're still in the area. You've got to warn the other Autobots."

Jazz frowned. "Decepticons? What in the galaxy could they be up to so close to our base?" Then he slapped his forehead. "Never mind. Stupid question."

"What I want to know," said Prowl, "is where the morning patrol is." He checked the time using a display alongside the screen's video feed—10:15 A. M. "By Primus, if they've been ambushed—"

"Hold up, Prowl," interrupted Optimus, not allowing him to take that thought any further. "Your bots can handle themselves. Right now, we need to get Sparkplug to the base safely. The Decepticons may have spotted him already."

Prowl nodded. "Right away, Prime."

"Jazz, get everyone in here and tell them what's happened. Everyone, from everywhere—except the medbay. Leave that one to me."

"Yes, sir." Jazz turned and ran, with Prowl close behind.

* * *

"Blasted thing," muttered Ratchet as he slammed the data pad down against the berth.

Wheeljack glanced up from his own work. "What's that, Ratchet?"

"We're getting nowhere." Ratchet heaved a sigh and shook his head in the hopes that would stop it from buzzing. (It didn't.)

"Why don't you take a break?" suggested Wheeljack. "See what Perceptor's up to."

Ratchet nodded slowly. "I think I'll do that. You let me know if anything comes up."

Wheeljack watched as Ratchet set down his wrench, turned, and vanished through the medbay doors that Ironhide had given up on guarding. He then returned to his examination of precisely how the joints in the suit before him worked. Their workings were smooth and complex like a web, and—

Suit.

Wheeljack paused. Now, where had that word come from?

He turned it over in his head. _Suit…suit. Suit. Suit?_ He got nothing. But it resonated with a kind of timbre that pricked at his awareness, like it should tell him something crucial he couldn't quite get a conscious grasp on. He frowned behind his facemask and looked down at the black mech.

_Ah_, he thought, relaxing again. The stranger's body frame resembled a suit of armor. He himself had noted it outside the warehouse. But the word still prickled…

BEEP.

Wheeljack blinked, yanked out of his thoughts.

FWOOP.

The sound came from the medbay computer. Wheeljack scanned the giant screen until his optics lit on one blinking heading.

_Incoming transmission to subject. _

"Tap into it!" Wheeljack was at the terminal in an instant, pressing all the appropriate buttons. "Record… and play it live, right now!"

He had time for one comm message before the transmission began.

_Ratchet, something's happening._

* * *

The feed of Cheez-007's observations to her monitor cut out suddenly. After an instant of complete blackness in the cockpit, it switched on again, this time displaying only wavelengths of sound in thin, surreal, barely-present yellow against that abyssal black.

It was a low, familiar voice that spoke.

"Hello again, Susan." It jarred up and down that certain octave, more unstable than before, as though he could hardly keep a pitch.

She calmed her thoughts and wracked her brain for answers. "Snake."

"Ah, so you do remember me. I thought you'd forgotten."

"Our arrangement is over."

"Oh, but it is not." She could almost hear him smile. "I've left a card for you in a conspicuous place. Venture home to that cave of yours and find it… then we will talk." A pause. Then: "I have a deal in mind that you cannot refuse."

The sound-waves flatlined, then winked out. Her spy's viewpoint came back. All was as it was before.

Except that Cheez was hurtling down the corridor after a sprinting robot.

* * *

Megatron regarded the almost-black screen coolly. "So, you have done it?"

The sound-waves flared up like little fractures. "Yes, it is as we discussed."

"Excellent. So the attack proceeds as planned."

"At the appointed time, in the appointed place. I will contact you."

Megatron raised a finger as though to tap it—then stopped. "You're certain this agent will follow your orders? My men cannot wait forever."

"If you keep our arrangement."

"_After_ the Autobots are destroyed."

Across the screen on that thin yellow line there came a fringe of hills and valleys, like a hiss just below the audible register. And then a whisper: "_It shall be done_."

The line winked out.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well, well. It's been a while. I apologize for taking so long, but until now nothing I wrote seemed right, and I would rather delay my updates than post an unsatisfactory chapter. That said, I intend to take this story through to the end.

Some of you may be thinking that this chapter is rather… condensed. I'll admit, it's not very long, and I threw a lot of stuff at you. Just do your best and roll with it. Who knows, I might need to come back and change things up, since I did write this in rather a frenzy.

I am fully aware that the character Snake has his own backstory already from the G.I. Joe franchise. However, I am extrapolating him as he appears in the Transformers cartoon alone. No knowledge of any other series is required, and this is not a crossover.

On a side note, I recently got an email asking whether or not this story's title is related to the song "Spark in My Heart" by Hurricane. It actually is not, but after hearing that song I think it does fit rather well. Any readers interested in hearing it will find it via a quick search on YouTube.

Happy Valentine's Day, everybody! I sure hope this update served as a pleasant surprise. As always, please let me know what you're thinking about the story and let me know about any errors or parts that seem off. I very much appreciate your feedback and continuing support for this story.


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